or no element of fire to consume it:  but when it came to the earth, it must be monstrous heavy, to break ground as low as the center.  His making milch the burning eyes of heaven, was a pretty tolerable flight too:  and I think no man ever drew milk out of eyes before him:  yet, to make the wonder greater, these eyes were burning.  Such a sight indeed were enough to have raised passion in the gods; but to excuse the effects of it, he tells you, perhaps they did not see it.  Wise men would be glad to find a little sense couched under all these pompous words; for bombast is commonly the delight of that audience, which loves poetry, but understands it not:  and as commonly has been the practice of those writers, who, not being able to infuse a natural passion into the mind, have made it their business to ply the ears, and to stun their judges by the noise.  But Shakespeare does not often thus; for the passions in his scene between Brutus and Cassius are extremely natural, the thoughts are such as arise from the matter, the expression of them not viciously figurative.  I cannot leave this subject, before I do justice to that divine poet, by giving you one of his passionate descriptions:  ’tis of Richard the Second when he was deposed, and led in triumph through the streets of London by Henry of Bolingbroke:  the painting of it is so lively, and the words so moving that I have scarce read any thing comparable to it, in any other language.  Suppose you have seen already the fortunate usurper passing through the crowd, and followed by the shouts and acclamations of the people; and now behold King Richard entering upon the scene:  consider the wretchedness of his condition, and his carriage in it; and refrain from pity, if you can: 

  As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
  After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage,
  Are idly bent on him that enters next,
  Thinking his prattle to be tedious: 
  Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyes
  Did scowl on Richard:  no man cry’d, God save him: 
  No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home,
  But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
  Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
  His face still combating with tears and smiles,
  (The badges of his grief and patience)
  That had not God (for some strong purpose) steel’d
  The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
  And barbarism itself have pitied him.

To speak justly of this whole matter:  it is neither height of thought that is discommended, nor pathetic vehemence, nor any nobleness of expression in its proper place; but it is a false measure of all these, something which is like them, and is not them:  it is the Bristol-stone, which appears like a diamond; it is an extravagant thought, instead of a sublime one; it is roaring madness, instead of vehemence; and a sound of words, instead of sense.  If Shakespeare were stripped of all the bombasts in his passions, and dressed in the most vulgar words, we should find